


better than a bolt in the leg

by Thalius



Series: Chapter 13 Re-Write [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cowboy Hijinks, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, S2E5 spoilers, Scene Re-Write, stand offs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: Lang said they were both men of honour. The Mandalorian knew that not to be true.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Ahsoka Tano
Series: Chapter 13 Re-Write [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034124
Comments: 3
Kudos: 222





	better than a bolt in the leg

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be a re-write of the stand off scene near the end of Chapter 13. Hopefully this is the end of my various attempts to re-write this entire episode. Also note that this fic connects vaguely with the other two in this series, so I'd recommend reading these in order. 
> 
> And, as this is a scene re-write, it's meant to complement the show itself rather than stand alone as its own story. I felt there were several loose ends that weren't tied up as nicely as I'd have liked, so the intention of this fic (and the other fics in this series) is to flesh out some of the themes the episode left on the table. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also note: though never stated in the show, the name of the Magistrate's officer is Lang, and the man who takes control of the town at the end of episode is Governor Wing, so neither of those are names I chose for them. Thanks IMDb!

The air was thick. He’d seen people coughing on his way into the city, and it didn’t take much to figure out why. The Magistrate’s factories were upwind of Calodan, and even extravagant inner walls and lush gardens couldn’t protect its elite from the smog. It almost smothered the smell of burnt flesh that clung to the cages next to him.

Lang coughed wetly, and it echoed across the square. “I got no quarrel with you, Mandalorian,” he called, his finger stroking the trigger of his shotgun. The paces between them made the weapon useless, but Lang was creeping slowly within range.

Din watched him. The vicious echo of Ahsoka’s fight with the Magistrate had only just begun, ringing out across the street. 

“Thought Mandos didn’t like Jedi,” Lang continued. He hadn’t stopped walking.

“She’s not a Jedi,” Din replied. “That’s far enough.”

Lang stopped. A flex of Din’s hand by his holster had probably done more to deter the man than his words, but he paused all the same.

“Sounds hardy, their fight,” Lang called, nodding past them, towards the inner gate. The sound of plasma connecting with steel rang out. “Who’d you reckon’ll win?”

He finger pet the trigger again. The outer range of the weapon might reach far enough to be a problem now, but Din had never seen him fire it before, and he wasn’t willing to bet on it.

“If Elsbeth does, we might treat you nicely,” Lang said when he didn’t respond. “Give up some of that shiny armour and we might even let you leave.”

“That isn’t decided yet.”

“No,” Lang agreed with a tilt of his head. “And if you happen to win, I’m in a bind. I say we strike a deal, here and now.”

Din smiled faintly. “What are you proposing?”

“You let me live, I give you this,” he said, and gestured forward with the gun in his hands. Din’s hand twitched in reflex, and Lang’s eyes narrowed. “Eh?”

“Is that all?”

“What else is there?”

Ahsoka’s echoing snarl reached him. He’d judged the Magistrate correctly, then; engaging her in battle would have been a bad idea. But Lang was not Elsbeth, thankfully. He was a proper coward, and cowards were much easier to reason with.

“Your sidearm, too,” Din said, nodding to his thigh.

“That thing isn’t worth the holster it’s in,” he said dismissively. “You’d have more luck with the shirt I’m wearing.”

“Give me your shirt, then.”

Lang laughed. The barrel of his gun dropped half an inch. “I like you, Mandalorian! You’re good at stalling.”

“We’re both stalling.”

“And if my side comes out on top,” Lang continued, face settled again in a serious expression, “what are you prepared to give up?”

Din could see in his periphery that the villagers were watching from the slatted windows of the bar, whispering to one another. It wasn’t just his life at stake, nor Ahsoka’s or the kid’s. He needed to be careful—and Ahsoka needed to wrap up quickly.

“I think I like the look of your jet pack,” Lang said. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. “And your breastplate. A bit sturdier than my shirt, that’s for sure.” He raised a brow. “Well?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you lose,” Lang said reasonably. “What about that little thing? Your lucky charm?”

“Lost him,” Din said. “He ran off.”

“Ah,” Lang sighed. “Unfortunate. For you, at least. You’re a bad liar.”

Din finally tensed. It felt like Lang had come closer, but he hadn’t stepped forward again. The barrel of his shotgun was held unnervingly high; he was likely in range, then.

“Is he worth much? Or do you just like him?”

Din didn’t respond. Instead he tried to recall what the spread on a barrel that size would be at this range. Most of the scattershot would probably catch him in his breastplate, but  _ most _ was still a problem if Lang’s aim was good. And he knew it probably was. The question was a matter of how fast the man could be. He could afford to be slower than Din, since he didn’t have his own pistol out, but it was hard to say how much time he truly had.

“Both?” Lang smiled. “I think both. A tough pairing. But if he’s in your ship, I think that’s a fair trade for your life.”

The sound of steel clattering to the ground behind them rang out. Lang went still, and the colour drained from his face. 

“Sounds like I won,” Din said.

Lang’s jaw worked. The mood shifted; his bravado fled in an instant. “Sounds like it.” 

“Put your weapon down.”

“Aye.” He held the shotgun out, now in offering, and set it slowly on the ground. “You’ll see that I’m cooperating. You see it?”

“I do.”

“Then we have a deal?”

“Lay down your sidearm, too,” Din told him. “And kick them both away from you.”

He watched the man carefully, his hand still hovering close at the stock of his blaster. Lang did as he said, setting the shotgun down and sliding it away. It clattered against the uneven stone before coming to a stop several feet away from him. Then he reached for his sidearm.

“Careful,” Din warned.

“I won’t shoot,” Lang promised. “You’re a man of honour, Mandalorian, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.”

“Well, so am I,” Lang informed him. “I keep my word. I trust you’ll keep yours.”

Din heard movement behind him. Ahsoka had vaulted over the garden wall and dropped down to the other side. Lang’s eyes widened, and he froze where he knelt on the ground.

“Having fun?” She stopped a few paces behind Din, watching on. Her tone betrayed nothing of the fierce struggle she’d been locked in on the other side of the gate; she simply sounded amused.

“A little,” Din admitted, quietly enough that Lang didn’t hear him. “You get what you needed?”

“That, and more.” Ahsoka stepped into view beside him, and he saw she had the spear in hand now.

“Good.” He looked back to Lang. “Hurry it up.”

“Those are all my weapons!” Lang slid the sidearm away from himself and stood up shakily, hands held in the air. His calm demeanour had vanished; there was real fear in his eyes now. “Don’t kill me!”

“I won’t.” He drew his gun and fired.

The sharp sound of the shot scattered across the city’s walls. The bolt ripped through Lang’s thigh, blowing his leg out behind him and sending him crashing hard into the stone walkway, face-first.

“Nice shot,” Ahsoka murmured. Lang cried out in agony, swearing ferociously.

Din holstered his weapon and stepped forward, walking the paces between them—thirty six, all told. He stopped briefly at the man’s discarded weapons, picking up the shotgun first. He didn’t have anything like it, and the plasma cartridge was too large to accommodate the munitions he had on hand, but still—it was a beautiful weapon. 

But he paused, and turned to see the Governor had stepped cautiously out from the bar. “Governor Wing,” he called out, and the man met his eyes. “Do your people have any weapons?”

“No.”

“Damn,” Din muttered. So much for keeping it. He sighed and set the shotgun aside on the ground, kicking the pistol next to it. 

“You—fuck!” Lang had managed to roll onto his back, and was clutching his leg, teeth locked in a snarl. “You shot me!”

“I did.” Din closed the rest of the distance between them and knelt next to the man, pushing his hands aside so he could pat at his belt.

“Our deal—”

“I didn’t agree to anything.” The man carried a lot of shit with him. He might have been ex-military, but he had likely been an officer, not enlisted; used to comfortable offices and polished star destroyers, not front line battle. Din tossed the package of tobacco he found aside and kept digging.

“Why?” Lang watched him, eyes wild, with a mix of exasperation and rage. “What are you—I said we had  _ no quarrel!” _

“I’m not a sheriff.”

He found what he was looking for—a coin purse. Fat, too, judging by the heft. Din pulled it open and nudged a finger inside. Mostly druggat slugs, with a few wupiupi coins mixed in. All together, it barely added up to half his usual payout, but it was better than a bolt in the leg.

“What are you doing?” Ahsoka asked, standing over them. Her high montrals blocked out what weak sunlight managed to filter through the thick, yellow smoke.

“I need to refuel soon.” Din stood up and tucked the coin purse into a pouch at his belt, and watched Lang squirm on the ground. 

He did not look happy. “Why?” he said again, pale eyes flicking between Din and Ahsoka. “Why not just kill me?”

“Like I said, I’m not the sheriff.” He glanced at Ahsoka. “Ready?”

Before she could answer them, there was a commotion on the opposite roof. He spotted one of the assassin droids, hauling itself up onto the peak of the building. A response from him was unnecessary; Ahsoka leapt without a sound, a straight vault from the ground to the roof, and in a single smooth motion she buried the tip of the spear still in her hands into the droid’s head. 

Din watched on, impressed, as the droid tumbled heavily to the ground, leaking hydraulic fluid across the dirt where it landed. The townspeople, who had begun to spill into the street, cheered at its demise. 

Then Ahsoka was back at his side, barely a whisper, almost too fast for his eyes to register.

She grinned at him. “Now I’m ready.”

* * *

The Mandalorian was quiet as they walked to the edge of town. For once, he was difficult to read; beyond a general sense of weariness, and a growing dread as their deal came to a close, she couldn’t discern his thoughts. The gunslinger’s calm that had overtaken him during the standoff lingered, creating a neat little wall between his thoughts and her senses.

“You didn’t kill him,” she finally said, her curiosity getting the better of her. “I know a lot of people who would have.”

“No,” he said quietly. “He’s not my man to kill. The townspeople can decide what to do with him.”

Ahsoka looked at him. The side of his helmet gave nothing away; it was all steel and glass. He didn’t elaborate either, but he didn’t really need to. She knew all she needed to know about him.

They reached the outer gate quickly, the triumphant cheers of Calodan’s people at their backs. It had been awhile since she’d done such a noble thing, even for a self-interested reason; it felt good to help people again.

She paused at the threshold, and the Mandalorian stopped beside her. Ahsoka offered him the spear, and watched him take it, reverently, in his hands.

“Was that your payment?” she asked. “For killing me?”

Din let out an amused huff. “Yes,” he replied, his hands sliding up the steel. “But it wasn’t the Magistrate’s to give away. It belongs with the Tribe.”

Ahsoka nodded. She knew better than most what it meant to reclaim a weapon stolen from one’s people, and watching him hold it in his hands now, gently and with great care, told her she’d done the right thing by giving it to him.

“I’ve never seen a beskar spear before,” she mused.

“That’s because it’s not Mandalorian made.” The material of his glove caught on one of the notches as he ran his finger over the indent. “I’ll find a blacksmith, see what they can do with it.”

They both looked up as Lang cried out. The crowd’s mood was cheerful at the moment, not vengeful, but she knew that could change quickly. He was still on the ground, being harangued by some children landing kicks against his ribs.

She would stay here for a little while, she decided. A few days, maybe. Long enough to ensure the city righted itself, and to see that no Imperial regiment came by to cause more problems. The factories, too, would need to be sabotaged. These people were far from reclaiming their planet, but this was a good first step.

“Governor Wing asked us to stay for dinner,” she said finally.

“I know.”

“You won’t join in?”

He shrugged. “People take offence if I don’t eat. It’s better that I’m on my way.” 

Ahsoka could hear the strain in his voice, and smiled at him. “Where is your little friend?”

He let out a deep sigh. “Back at the ship. I’ll go get him.”

She raised a brow. “You’re sure?”

“I held up my end,” he said roughly. “Wait here.” 

The Mandalorian stepped away, and moved towards the woods. He held the spear in his hand like he was wielding it against a great foe.

“If you’re sure,” she called to him, and knew that he was not.


End file.
